


Sparkle and Shoosh

by mercurialMalcontent



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Other, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-05
Updated: 2013-08-05
Packaged: 2017-12-22 12:32:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/913261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mercurialMalcontent/pseuds/mercurialMalcontent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During initiation, the older Threshecutioners told you tales about how Her Imperious Condescension (may she ever swim in glory) would test them during guard duty with will all sorts of flirting, usually black. Never take the bait, they warned you, because even if she does take a mere Threshie as a playmate, she usually breaks her toys.</p><p>That did not prepare you for her singling you out. It sure as hell didn’t prepare you for how.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sparkle and Shoosh

During initiation, the older Threshecutioners told you tales about how Her Imperious Condescension (may she ever swim in glory) would test them during guard duty with will all sorts of flirting, usually black. Never take the bait, they warned you, because even if she does take a mere Threshie as a playmate, she usually breaks her toys.

That did not prepare you for her singling you out. It sure as hell didn’t prepare you for how.

During your first week on duty she complimented you with, "Hey shortstack, you’re pretty good lookin," and tweaked one of your horns. The second week, she started straightening your uniform collar whenever she walked past. The beginning of the third week, she asked if you were sleeping well, and before you went on weekend leave, your commander handed you a bedazzled care package.

You’re not sure if you should be frightened, or terrified.

The other Threshecutioners start ribbing you about it, asking when troll David is going to pap that Goliath. You get into a lot of shouting fights, a couple of actual fistfights, and get written up once. You make a fierce promise to yourself not to engage, but when you receive a tin of glitter-infused bruise-balm that goes out the fenestrated wall. The Condesce wants to play? You’ll play.

Next time she comes past, starts fussing with your uniform while she chatters to her advisors, you interrupt. "Your Imperious Condescension."

Her advisors stare, their bulging eyes making them look fishier than their fins do. She peers down at you, petulance and puzzlement fighting for a place in her expression. "Whatchya want, kid?"

You put every modicum of ego and stubbornness you have to bear. "Bend down a little. Your eyeliner is smudged."

Her nostrils flare. “What?"

"Bend down, I’ll fix it."

Puzzlement wins out, but her eyes are narrowed as she bends down low enough for your faces to be level with one another. You whip out a pocket handkerchief, dab it to your tongue, and ever so carefully tidy up her makeup, because she always smudges the outer corner of her left eye. Always. "There. Perfect."

She demands a pocket mirror from an advisor and peers into it thoughtfully. “So it is! Good work, Threshie."

Everyone buys you a drink that night, possibly because they’re sure you’re not going to survive the perigee.

Soon you wonder if they’re right. She keeps upping the ante — fussing with your hair, inquiring if you’re eating enough, sending your more little care gifts — and you keep responding. First it’s fixing her makeup, then it’s spit-shining her bracelets and adjusting her necklaces.

The other Threshecutioners start planning your wake.

Wise of them, really, even though you yell at them about it out of sheer reflex. She’s going to get tired of you sometime, tired of her little game with the little mutant, and decide you’ve gone a step too far and then suddenly WHOOPS you’re personally culled. You start contributing to the betting pool for when your inevitable demise will be, with instructions to send any winnings to your kismesis. 

And things are getting worse. She’s starting… to complain in your vicinity. To sigh. To rub her temples and bemoan how difficult it is to be empress, how hard it is to rule all these chumps who can barely tie their own bootlaces, how it all gives her the worst headaches, how it’s hard and nobody understands. You’ve withstood it all so far, but you fear she’s seen your face twitch.

You fear you’re not going to be able to resist for much longer, and you’re right. The night before your two weeks of leave — the longest amount of leave you’ve had in nearly a sweep — you’re on duty in the throne room, and of course that’s the night the Condesce comes in, obviously in a huge snit about something, and throws herself down onto her throne like a wriggler having a tantrum.

Her advisors hurry up to her. "Your Eternal Gloriousness, we can’t—"

"We can’t we can’t we can’t," she says in a sing-song mockery. "We can’t find our nooks with both hands!"

"That’s not—"

"You can’t do shit but tell me what you can’t do! You’re fuckin useless, is what you are. Cod, I oughtta cull the whole lot of you right now!" She gestures her culling fork at one and he topples off the dais in fright. 

You don’t even realize you’re moving until you’re most of the way there and running too fast to stop. The other Threshecutioners shout, but too late; you barrel into Her Imperious Condescension, Crown Jewel of the Alternian Empire, and knock her back into her throne — and you onto her lap.

You look up to see her baring way too many teeth at you. "What the fuck do you think—"

"Shoosh," you say firmly, and pap her cheek.

"Did." Her eyes narrow. “Did you just pap me?"

"Yes I goddamn well did," you say, your voice shaking, and do it again. “Shoosh, god damn it, you’re working yourself up into a headache. Shoosh. Shoooosh." Your heart pounds like it’s going to burst out of your chest, but you keep papping. “Calm the fuck down, you’re just embarrassing yourself."

The Condesce’s eyes go hazy and half-lidded. "I can’t embarrass myself, I rule everyfin," she mumbles into your hair. 

Your name is Karkat Vantas and you never back down from a challenge, which is how you have apparently become Her Imperious Condescension’s moirail.


End file.
